Dying Breath Read online

  DYING BREATH

  A Phineas Troutt/Lt. Jack Daniels/Harry McGlade Thriller

  by J.A. KONRATH

  His name is Phineas Troutt. He’s a problem solver.

  Her name is Jack Daniels. She’s a homicide cop.

  And then there’s Harry McGlade, private eye.

  Phin is trying to find a missing girl.

  Jack is on the trail of a serial killer.

  Harry is looking for a runaway.

  Little do they know, they’re all on the same case...

  They call themselves The Club. A group of rich, privileged twenty-somethings who like to indulge in things that money can’t buy. Things like kidnapping, torture, and murder.

  They think they can get away with it.

  They’re wrong.

  DYING BREATH by JA Konrath

  United we stand, united we fall

  AUTHOR FOREWORD

  I always skip reading forewords, but I’m writing this one because I think it will be helpful for readers, both new ones and longtime fans.

  DYING BREATH was written in 1995, three years after I’d graduated college. It was the second of three Phineas Troutt books I wrote before I moved on to techno thrillers (ORIGIN, THE LIST) and eventually the Jack Daniels series, which were the first books I published.

  But Jack existed before WHISKEY SOUR’S print debut in 2004. Jack appeared in many unpublished short stories, and in the Phin trilogy, before she got her own series.

  DYING BREATH is as much Jack’s book as it is Phin’s. It fits in Jack’s chronology between DIRTY MARTINI and FUZZY NAVEL.

  This is also Harry McGlade’s book.

  Some of my readers love Harry, some just tolerate him. He’s my favorite character, and that’s why I perform Harry’s voice in my later audiobooks.

  Harry predates both Jack and Phin, and was created when I was in high school in 1984, as a parody of Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer. DYING BREATH is the only novel I ever did where Harry has his own point-of-view (though I did do an experimental humor book with him as hero called BANANA HAMMOCK). I’d always intentionally left out Harry’s POV because I thought he was more interesting as someone who pops up in the lives of my main characters, rather than as a main character himself. But cutting McGlade’s POV out of DYING BREATH would have meant cutting out one-third of the book.

  Maybe I should have cut him. He’s pretty immature. He also breaks the fourth wall a few times, addressing the reader directly, which some people find weird. You be the judge. But when I decided to unleash these early “lost” books on the public, I chose to remain as close to my original intent as possible. I wrote these when I was a young adult in my twenties, literally half my life ago, and while I’m the same person, I’m not entirely the same writer.

  This is easily the longest book I ever wrote on my own (two of the books in the CODENAME: CHANDLER series I did with Ann Voss Peterson are longer). That’s because DYING BREATH is essentially three interwoven novels—one with Phin, one with Jack, and one with Harry. It also follows much more of a mystery format than my other books, so the pace is a bit different than my other work.

  I released this Phineas Troutt trilogy because fans kept asking about my never-published novels. If you ever wanted to know what my early writing was like, warts and all, here it is. And with the release of this book, along with DEAD ON MY FEET and EVERYBODY DIES, every one of my novels is now available to the public.

  If you’re new to my books, Phin, Jack, and Harry also appear in a lot of my other work. Check out the bibliography at the end of the book, or my website www.jakonrath.com, for more details.

  Also, at one point in this story, Phin gets into a bit of cryptography and puzzle solving. If you like that sort of thing, take a look at my STOP A MURDER series, because that’s all about brain teasers.

  And, as always, thanks for reading!

  Joe Konrath

  Chicago 2018

  Real friends are our greatest joy and our greatest sorrow. It were almost to be wished that all true and faithful friends should expire on the same day.

  —Fenelon

  MINNESOTA

  MAY 2008

  Tucker Shears padded out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, a thin sheen of sweat on his naked upper body. He stopped at the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer, holding it against his forehead like they do in TV commercials.

  “How’s it hanging?” Chad sat at the kitchen table, poking at his Nintendo DS with a plastic stylus.

  Tucker unscrewed the bottle cap and took a long pull before answering. “It’s hanging.” He sprawled out on a swivel chair across from his friend.

  Chad didn’t bother to look up from his game. “Who’s turn?”

  “Garrett’s. Where is the entitled douchebag?”

  “Outside. Digging.”

  The screen door was open, so Tucker yelled, “Yo! Garrett! You’re up!” He had another swig of beer. “What game?”

  “Pop Cutie! Street Fashion Simulation.”

  Tucker snorted. “Bullshit.”

  “It’s Japanese. You design clothing and put it in a catalog.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of.”

  Chad paused and peered up over his glasses at Tucker. “What’s your favorite game?”

  “Super Mario Brothers.”

  “Where you’re an Italian plumber who jumps on walking mushrooms while you break bricks with your head to collect coins.”

  Tucker gave him the finger, then yelled again for Garrett.

  Garrett McConnroy entered the cottage via the patio. He wore shades, jeans shorts, and dirty leather work gloves. His trademark Kool cigarette hung on his lower lip, threatening to fall out of his mouth.

  “How’s the hole?” Tucker asked.

  “Holey.” Garrett sucked in some smoke, blew it out. “We need a backhoe.”

  “Take it up with Eddie. He pays for all your shit, doesn’t he?”

  “You mean Eddie’s rich daddy,” Chad said without looking up from his game. “He’s the one that gave him the family business.”

  “Where is Eddie?” Tucker asked. He checked the bank of monitors in the kitchen. Eight of them, each one with a dedicated closed-circuit camera. They were serious about their privacy, and the property was under twenty-four hour surveillance, including night-vision.

  Of course, they didn’t record any video. The point was to see who was coming and going, not to keep any records.

  “He’s on the dock,” Garrett said, taking off his gloves.

  Tucker looked for a dock camera, and didn’t see one.

  “Why can’t I see the pier on the monitor?” he asked.

  Garrett pointed. “Because all you have to do is look out the goddamn patio window.”

  The window did have a clear and obvious view of the pier. Tucker gave him the finger as Garrett walked by. He watched Garrett walk right past the bathroom.

  “Aren’t you going to shower?”

  “Did you?”

  Fair point.

  “Maybe we should make it Club rules,” Tucker suggested. “Always shower first.”

  “Whatever.”

  Tucker killed his beer, got up, and asked Chad if he needed one. Chad declined. Tucker got him one anyway, and one for himself, then walked onto the patio through the sliding security doors.

  The day was glorious. Blue sky, eighty degrees, and almost a whole lake to themselves.

  This was party weather. Beer-drinking hell-raising weather.

  Tucker took a deep gulp of Minnesota air and held it in his lungs, tasting the pines.

  There were many pines on the property.

  Every time they came up, they planted even more. They laid claim to twenty of them so far. They provided good shade, and served a good
purpose.

  Thank you, Mother Nature.

  It was summer, and they were on another vacation. Eddie’s father, a very wealthy son of a bitch who liked his privacy, had bought this cabin on Lake Violet seven years ago, along with half of the shoreline land. Theirs was the only cottage on the east side of the lake. For the last seven years, old friends Tucker, Chad, Garrett, and Ed had come up here. Sometimes bringing girls with. Sometimes going stag and finding women in the nearby town of Danburn. Either way, it was always one hell of a good time. Fishing, drinking, tanning.

  The lifestyle of the young and spoiled.

  Eddie Cline was down on the pier, lying on a chaise lounge next to a cooler full of beer and melted ice. He had one of those silly reflector things resting on his chest that helped tan the bottom of the face. Tucker walked over to him.

  “Hey dumbass, I thought I smelled something burning. It was your skin cells.”

  Eddie glanced at him from behind his expensive sunglasses and flashed his perfect orthodontic work.

  “Hey, Tucker. Seen my smokes?”

  “No. Your buddy Garrett has some.”

  “He smokes menthols, man. Those things are bad for your lungs.”

  “So buy some more, rich boy.”

  Eddie nodded. “I was thinking we go into town tonight, see if we can find a good time.”

  Tucker shotgunned his beer and set the empty on the pier. He reached for one from Ed’s cooler and popped it open.

  “I think I’ll stay here with Julie tonight. Take the others if you want.”

  “Oooh, lover boy wants some time alone with the chick. Tell me, Tucker. Is it love?”

  Tucker gave him the finger.

  Eddie pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and looked at Tucker over the lenses. Both began to laugh at the same time.

  “How’s she doing anyway?” asked Eddie as the chuckles died down.

  “Okay when I left her. Garrett’s with her now.”

  “You’re not afraid Garrett is gonna try something with your girl, are you, Tucker?”

  Tucker grinned wickedly. “Go to hell.”

  On the half of the Lake that Eddie’s father didn’t own, there was a speedboat pulling two water-skiers. Tucker watched them for a while.

  “I think I’ll take a swim,” he said.

  “Work up a sweat with Julie?” said Eddie.

  Tucker poured some beer on his friend’s head. Eddie punched him in the hip.

  “To The Club,” Tucker said.

  Eddie raised his beer. “To The Club.”

  They clinked, drank, and Tucker poured the backwash on Eddie, then took off down the pier and dove into the water.

  It was cool and dark, and tasted like a clean lake should taste. Tucker found the bottom, which was only ten feet deep or so, and snatched a handful of sand. He brought it up to the surface and rubbed it into his palms.

  His grandfather told him many years ago that sand was the best soap in the world. Rub your hands in sand and water and any stain will come out.

  Tucker took a couple of strokes outward, then turned and headed for the pier again. He wanted an inner tube, and more beer. There was a faint westward breeze and the waves lap-lapped against the shore like suckling calves. He swam until his feet found the bottom, and then walked over to a beached tube that he had been using the day before.

  Tucker paddled back out with that, kicking behind it like a child taking swimming lessons, and pulled himself into a sitting position in the center of the tube. The sun felt good on his forehead, and he remembered the beer. The pier was twenty yards away.

  Screw it, he was too comfortable.

  # # #

  Eddie got out of his chaise lounge and walked to the house, past the pricey waterski boat docked to the pier. He wanted to eat something, preferably something sugary and unhealthy. Chad was in the kitchen, drinking a beer and playing his DS.

  “How’s that stupid game?”

  “In the middle of a fashion battle.”

  Eddie didn’t get it. “What’s the point?”

  “What’s the point of anything?”

  Eddie checked the fridge and found some supermarket jelly donuts. He took out the box. With all the beer he’d been drinking, he didn’t need a donut. But what the hell. He only got to hang out with his old high school buds a few times a year. He’d hit the gym when he got home.

  There was a cry from the bedroom. “Garrett’s taking a turn?”

  Chad nodded, then held out his hand for a donut. Eddie handed him one, then popped one in his own mouth. The grape jelly was cold.

  Another scream from the bedroom.

  “What the hell is going on in there?” Eddie yelled, in mock parental tones.

  “What do you think?” came Garrett’s laughing reply from the bedroom.

  “Hurry up!” Eddie yelled back. “Some people want their turn too!”

  Chad swore and slammed down his handheld game.

  “Lost the battle?”

  “Fashion,” Chad said, “is brutal.”

  Eddie finished the donut and grabbed another.

  “Tucker is talking about changing Club rules. Showering first.”

  Eddie regarded Chad. “Makes sense. Like wiping off the gym equipment when you’re done.”

  “More like wiping it before you get on.”

  “We can put it to a vote. Tonight.”

  A sweaty Garrett trudged down the hall, breathing heavy and looking pissed.

  “Bitch bit me,” he said, holding up his knuckles. “When we gonna do her, Ed? I’m sick of her crying.”

  “Soon as we find a replacement, buddy,” said Eddie. He looked at the blood on Garrett’s knuckles and found himself getting aroused. “Maybe I’ll try to calm her down.”

  Julie was where she’d been since they’d found her hitchhiking, three days ago; tied to the bed, naked and spread-eagle. She looked much the worse for wear, with bruises almost blackening her face and cigarette burns covering a lot of her body, especially her tits. Eddie complained to Garrett about that, because then her nipples tasted like an ashtray, but Garrett was Garrett, set in his ways.

  “Hi, Julie,” said Eddie.

  Julie screamed, and Eddie smashed her across the face, hearing her jaw crack. They should have done that sooner, like they had with the one before.

  Can’t bite with a broken jaw.

  Eddie pulled down his swimsuit and straddled her face. She screamed, but it was okay because his father owned half the lake. No one would hear her. Just like no one had heard the previous twenty. And when it came time to kill her, they’d just dig a hole and plant a pine tree on top of her.

  Best. Fertilizer. Ever.

  Someone banged on the door.

  “Occupied!”

  “Figured you’d be done by now,” Chad laughed.

  “You’re a riot,” Eddie said as he pumped away.

  Julie had passed out again.

  “Hey, Julie, wake up,” Eddie slapped her face. “You never thanked us for the ride.”

  Eddie laughed as he finished, and then went to tell Chad he could go take his turn.

  PHIN’S EPIGRAPH

  When your business is dying

  It’s an apathetic death

  When dying is your business

  You feel every dying breath.

  THE PROBLEM SOLVER

  My name is Phineas Troutt.

  On bad days, which are frequent, I think of myself as a scumbag loser drug addict who lost his last shred of humanity the day I got my cancer diagnosis. On all-too-rare good days, I consider myself a problem solver. If you have some sort of problem, like your ex-husband is threatening you, or you’re being blackmailed, or your delinquent teen joined a gang, I can help.

  Cops and licensed private investigators have rules and laws and a sense of self-preservation.

  Not me.

  I’m more like a gun. Just point… and shoot.

  CHICAGO

  MAY 2008

  PHIN


  Chicago was as good a place as any to die.

  If I had a choice I wouldn’t be dying. But that’s not up to me. The location I choose is, so when Earl invades the rest of my body and puts a halt to all of my vital processes, it’ll happen in Chicago.

  Not that I have any particular love for the city. But I’ve lived here all my life, and a change of scenery this late in the game would be pointless. You don’t start watching a movie if you know you’re just going to turn it off after the first twenty minutes.

  Besides, spring had finally come to the South Side, and even a cynical bastard like me had to admit it was pretty.

  The air was fresh and moist, tinged with a barely perceptible floral scent. Budding trees and blooming flowers and growing plants. The birds were back. The squirrels were romping around. Even the people seemed energized, subconsciously aware of the rebirth that spring represented.

  It had been a bitter, harsh winter, made all the more unbearable with chemo and radiation therapy, but I’d scraped through it.

  If I died now at least I wouldn’t die cold.

  I was on Cermak in Chinatown, looking for a birthday present for the doctor I’d been falling in love with over the past few months. So far nothing caught my eye, unless I wanted to spend fifty bucks on a bamboo plant in an ugly pot that said LUCKY LUCKY.

  That probably wouldn’t have the desired romantic effect.

  I walked past a little knick-knack boutique and peered into the window to see if anything stood out. A smiling jade Buddha waved at me. I didn’t know much about Pasha’s religious convictions, other than she didn’t follow Hinduism. Buying her a Buddha would probably open up a conversation I didn’t want to have.

  I squinted at the price tag. Too expensive anyway. I hadn’t worked in a while, so my bank account was on the low side. And by bank account I meant the cash I had on me.

  I walked on.

  “Hey, baldy.”

  Since I was bald, I turned to look. The greeting came from one of the three Chinese teenagers who had been tailing me for the last few minutes. I tried to act surprised anyway. After all, they’d put in the effort.